


Kill Your Heroes

by Safiyabat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Mark of Cain, Samulet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1337947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Safiyabat/pseuds/Safiyabat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester crawled out of the Pit when the Devil's Gate opened, helped to take Azazel down and then there was nothing.  Six years later he comes back to himself in a basement room facing down a virtual stranger with an agenda of his own.  When he learns what's going on and about the Mark of Cain, can he figure out the game his younger son is playing before it's too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never Let Your Fear Decide Your Fate

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to a podcast interview done by Jensen Ackles in which he said Dean would probably want to bring his father back. It kind of took a turn on me. This is a deathfic. Sorry. 
> 
> I posted to tumblr to see how people wanted this to end, and there was a more-or-less even response about the ending so I wrote both. Chapters 2 and 3 are different versions of the ending. Read the warning in the chapter title before you choose your ending!
> 
> Supernatural and the characters from the show are not my property. I make no money from this or any other work of fan fiction.

Consciousness flooded John Winchester. It was more than consciousness, it was _awareness_. With awareness came the knowledge that he’d lacked both consciousness and awareness for some time. He remembered Hell – not, of course, that anyone really ever forgets Hell. No one gets the opportunity. He remembered what he became in Hell, the feeling of the black smoke encroaching and taking over before he got off that rack. He remembered the opening of the Devil’s Gate. He remembered tackling Azazel. He remembered that last fond smile exchanged with Dean… And then he remembered nothing. 

Now, though, there was sensation. A tile floor lay beneath his very human hands. He had bones, and organs, and blood and viscera and skin and hair and eyes. The floor was cool underneath his cheek. The faint scent of burning herbs danced on the otherwise bland, climate-controlled air. “I know you’re awake,” a voice informed him. The voice sounded almost familiar – a bit like Sam’s, to be honest, but different. It had sunk a few octaves, if it was his, and it had sounded like it had been dragged across a spiked dungeon floor and John knew a thing or two about that. There was no softness to it, none at all despite the exhaustion evident behind it. 

He opened his eyes. The voice seemed to be attached to a man, and the man might have born some resemblance to Mary’s son. If it was him, though, he’d continued to grow even after John died both in height and stature. His hair needed to be cut more than ever – some critter was going to grab hold of it one of these days and then where would he be? – and a fine coating of stubble coated his chin. He jerked a thumb at a pile of objects at the edge of the elaborate devil’s trap in which John found himself. “Get to it,” he instructed.

John stood slowly, bristling slightly at the other’s peremptory tone. He would have thought that would be difficult – after all, God alone knew how long he’d been… wherever he’d been… but everything seemed to be in perfectly good working order. “Is there a reason I’m naked?” he inquired evenly.

“Testing,” Maybe-Sam replied firmly. “Then talk.” He stood behind a marble-topped table topped by a large hammered bronze bowl and a generously sized knife made from the same material. The blade had blood on it; whatever had been in the bowl still smoked. A pile of neatly folded clothes lurked beside him. The room wasn’t exactly well heated so the hunter really hoped that the fabric was intended for him.

John looked at the objects beside him: a glass of water, a silver ring and a basin with soapy water. He lifted the glass of water and tried to down it like a shot, only to find it unpleasantly salted. If he gagged on it Maybe-Sam would think he was a demon and make a scene so he forced himself to swallow. “Salt in the holy water. Nice one.” 

“Efficient.” He shrugged. “Saves time.” Those alien eyes, the ones he’d never been able to call familiar, followed him as he squatted down to grab the silver ring. “No reaction. Next.”

“The hell is this?” John growled.

“Just stick your hands in and wash them,” Maybe-Sam sighed.

“Or else what?”

“Or else I chop your head off while you spurt black goo everywhere, dump the head in a river and burn the body. Your call.”

Now that, with the little note of exasperation, sounded like Sam. He stuck his hands in the water and sloshed them around. “Satisfied?” 

“All right. You’re human. Do you remember your name?”

“John Winchester. I served in Vietnam, my wife’s name was Mary, I had two sons –“ 

Maybe-Sam cleared his throat while tossing him a towel. “You want to re-think that statement?”

John started to dry his hands and looked up. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I had occasion to spend quite a bit of time with a guy who called himself Adam Milligan.” He put the clothes on the floor and slid them across to John.

“Oh.” He paused. “Whose clothes are these?” He wasn’t going to say anything, not without confirmation. He had an obligation to protect Adam, and Kate too. Maybe Mary’s children were cursed – well, Sam was cursed, and Dean was just hit by the aftereffects – but Adam was good, Adam was pure, Adam didn’t have to be sullied by this life. Even mentioning him in public could cause him problems. 

“Dean’s. We burned yours.” 

So this was Sam. He didn’t quite know how to react. “How long’s it been?” he asked instead, tugging the jeans on. It wasn’t like they’d ever been close.

“It’s 2014.”

“And you met Adam.” “Yeah.” One corner of his mouth twitched a little. “Twice, sort of. The first time he was a ghoul, though. Him and his mom. They tried to eat me.”

John dropped the shirt he was struggling with. “What?” 

“Yeah. That didn’t work out so well. But, uh, he came back.”

“So people coming back to life has just become old hat to you.” 

He thought about it. “More or less, yeah. I guess. I mean things are kind of screwy with the Veil right now but I mean it’s not like we’re surprised anymore or anything.” He shrugged.

“So which one of you made a deal, then?” John growled.

“For you?” Eyebrows rose with hints of the sass and sarcasm that had once characterized his middle son. 

“No, for Abraham Lincoln, dumbass. Yes, for me. I’m standing right here.” 

“Neither. Hell’s having a bit of a leadership crisis at the moment and I’m not really sure that either candidate’s all that keen on adding to the number of Winchesters running amok.” He snorted quietly. “No angel deals either. Come on, let’s go tell Dean the good news.”

The father fought down the urge to wipe the smirk off Sam’s face at the last two words. “Where the hell is he?”

“Either in his room or drinking in the kitchen. After you.”

He found himself grateful for the lack of mirrors. “’His room?’ What the hell? You two buy a house or something?” 

“Nope.” He gestured toward the door, keeping at least two arms’ lengths between them. “After you. We’ll try the kitchen first.” 

“I taught you better than to get attached to places, boy.” He followed the hallway in the direction Sam pointed. “It just makes it easier for your enemies to find you.”

“I’m aware. Keep moving.”

“Excuse me?” 

“If you want to find Dean, keep moving. If you want to hang out in the bowels of the bunker and argue hunting philosophy all day, feel free. But you’re doing it alone; I didn’t bring you back for me.” He crossed his arms over his chest. When John died Sam hadn’t exactly been small, but he could have used more strength training. John hadn’t made an issue of it because it would only help Azazel’s cause. Clearly the kid had done something about it between then and now. 

“You brought me back?” 

“Yeah. It’s not such an interesting story that I’m keen to tell it twice.” He gestured toward the hallway. 

The men glared at each other for a good fifteen seconds before John turned around and moved forward. He didn’t like the feel of Sam’s alien eyes on his back, liked them even less after Hell in fact, and he didn’t like this insubordinate tone of his. It’s not that the insubordination was new. It was the nature of the insubordination. Always before Sam’s insubordination was something that could be steamrolled over. John was the commander, Sam was kind of the probationary private and that was just how it worked. Now Sam was an immovable object. It would get better once Dean was here to back John up – he’d always had a better time of managing Sam without having to resort to violence. Sam clearly did not want John behind him, not for any reason, and so he wasn’t about to allow that to happen. 

He followed the boy’s directions up some stairs and down some more hallways. “Did you boys move into a bank?” he asked after a few more minutes. “This place is huge.”

“Again – Dean tells it better.”

Eventually they found their way into a kitchen that looked for all the world like something that had been lifted right out of a home catalogue from the 1950s. He could have sworn that he remembered some of the same appliances in his own home when he’d been very small, although there were some more modern additions that John didn’t entirely approve of. The espresso machine, for example, had no place in a hunter’s home. Even the coffee pot looked out of place. All of those things paled in comparison to the welcome sight that greeted John at the table. 

Dean had aged, but who wouldn’t in eight years? The changes weren’t as marked as they were in Sam, who had been transformed from a puppy to a lion. Dean sat in a chair with a fifth of Jack in front of him, staring out at nothing. He dressed the same. He actually seemed to have fewer scars; the broken fingers on his hands had been straightened out and repaired at some point. His green eyes looked frankly dead, though, and an archaic-looking brand stuck halfway out from underneath a partially rolled up sleeve. He looked up a little bit when he saw someone walk into the room. “Sam, what –“ Since when did Dean call Sam “Sam?” 

“Dean?” he smiled. “It’s good to see you, son.” He walked the rest of the way into the kitchen. Sam followed.

Dean rose to attention perfectly. He reeked of booze, but it didn’t seem to have much of an effect on him. “Sir?” he greeted, brows drawing together. “Sam, is this –“ 

“I tested him, Dean.” The exhaustion seemed to come through more in Sam’s voice. 

“I’m going to want to see for myself.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask, tossing it to John. “Drink that.” Dean’s tests were a little different from Sam’s. His flask had no salt in the holy water, and he insisted on cutting John with a silver knife. The borax – whatever that was about – apparently needed to be squirted directly on for Dean to be satisfied, but he didn’t seem to feel compelled to offer to behead his father for any reason. He stood to attention and waited for his father to relax and offer to hug him, which was done immediately and tearfully. 

Sam stood off to the side. Initially John thought he might be waiting for an invitation to join them; as it turned out he was making a pot of espresso. It was probably just as well; Dean didn’t seem to want Sam to intrude on the embrace anymore than Sam wanted to be part of it. The difference wasn’t lost on the senior Winchester; the last time he’d been alive Dean would have offered his own right arm if it would have brought Sam and John closer together. “Let me look at you, son,” John told him, holding him at arm’s length. “You look good!” 

“So do you, sir. So do you. If you don’t mind my asking, sir…” 

“How am I alive?” He chuckled darkly, sitting down in the other chair at the table and pouring himself a glass of the whiskey. “I’m really curious about that myself. Someone told me it wasn’t such an interesting story that he felt like repeating it.” 

Dean snorted. “Sounds like him.” 

“I brought him back.” Sam’s voice was quiet and head somewhat bowed. It would be easy to get the impression that he was somehow ashamed of what he’d done, but only for someone who didn’t know Sam. They’d have to miss the way his shoulders were laid back easily, his eyes up and meeting his brother’s squarely. “Found a ritual in the archives.” 

“Who or what did you have to deal with?” Dean demanded, advancing slowly. “Abaddon? Crowley?” A twitch appeared in his jaw.

“Nope.” 

“Metatron, maybe? Your old buddy Gadreel?” John hadn’t heard of demons by any of those names. 

“Gadreel is your friend, not mine. At least that’s how I recall it.” And there was that anger of Sam’s, magma just beneath the surface. “I didn’t make any deals, Dean. You remember what Henry told us about how the Men of Letters worked spells. They tapped into the power of their own souls – or were you too busy hating the man that you decided not to listen to him when he spoke on general principles?” He shook his head. 

John blinked. “You. Tapped into the power of your own soul.” 

Sam smirked a little. “Worried that it would be too tainted to use? Apparently not. Evidently it’s still good for something.” He sipped from his coffee. “It’ll take some time to recover but yeah. It’s possible. Anyway, I found some of Cuthbert’s old notes and went from there.” 

Dean slammed a hand down on the table. “Damn it, Sam! Were you going to tell me about your little experiment or did you just decide to go off and start summoning dead people into the middle of the bunker without thinking of the consequences? Oh, let me guess. You weren’t thinking of who could get hurt. It was just another case of little Sammy wanting to show off, look how powerful I am. Brilliant. Did you think to make sure to close the door behind you?” 

“As a matter of fact I did.” The younger brother sipped from his coffee again. If he was perturbed by his brother’s speech he didn’t show it, and that was new too. Always before if Dean had wanted to turn Sam around he’d only had to hint at disapproval; Sam would turn on a dime. Well, up until Stanford anyway. What the Hell had happened in the past eight years to change them into this? 

Dean sneered. “I guess ‘what’s dead should stay dead’ only applies to you, huh Sam?” He took a long swig straight from the bottle.

“Learned from the best. Listen, Dean, I know you’ve been dreaming about it.”

John looked at his good son. The mix of emotions that ran over his face would have been comical on someone else, or maybe under other circumstances. There was rage, confusion, despair, violation – “You’ve been on the dreamroot, messing around in my head?” he hissed, sweeping his arm across the table and knocking the glasses to the floor.

“I’m psychic, Dean. You keep forgetting that, probably on purpose.”

“That all went away when you got clean!”

“I will never, ever be clean, Dean. I never was. The demonic crap needed the boost. The other stuff? Not so much. I have to fight it. And you, Dean, have been wishing for your daddy so badly that you’ve been broadcasting it all over the bunker ever since Kevin died. I can’t freaking sleep. I’m not dreamwalking you, you’re like the boomcar from Hell that drives down the road and parks outside my bedroom window blaring nothing but the bass track all night long. I gave you want you wanted.” John shook his head at the graphic description.

“Without asking me?”

Sam smirked. “Heh. Yeah, Dean. I went and did something for you without asking you. Still didn’t put anything into your body that you didn’t want there though.” 

And John really didn’t think that he wanted to know what that little gem was all about, but that was when the realization hit him. He had been resurrected. Sam had resurrected him – raised him from the dead, returned him from oblivion – but hadn’t bothered to do anything about the one person who most deserved life. He charged at his younger son and grabbed him by the shirt. “You bastard!” he screamed. “Mary comes first! What the hell were you thinking?”

Long, thin fingers wrapped around his windpipe. “Don’t touch me.” He lifted John out and away from him and deposited him onto the ground. “There’s a lot you don’t know about Mom.” John hadn’t even known he was winding up for a punch until Sam raised a hand. “Don’t even think about taking a swing. I’m not twelve anymore. I’ve done my research. And no matter what she may have done, she didn’t deserve to be brought back to life against her will.” He rolled his eyes. “The last thing she wanted was to have her sons raised as hunters.” 

“She didn’t know anything about hunters or hunting,” John spat.

“Uh, Dad?” Dean winced and nodded when his father turned around. “It’s all true. Time travel. Kind of a thing. She, uh, she wouldn’t like this. None of it.”

“I think someone had better start explaining. Why don’t you start with why you suddenly started thinking witchcraft was a great plan, Sam? I know I taught you better than that.” He sat back down in his chair, trying to avoid the broken glass.

“Yeah, well, you also ordered Dean to kill me so I’m not feeling like you’ve got a lot of moral high ground.” Sam finished his coffee, put it in the sink. “Enjoy the reunion.” 

He left the room. John looked at Dean. Dean looked at John. “So, I guess a few things have changed,” John suggested.

The younger man hung his head and gave a sheepish grin, running his hand through his hair in a gesture that was so reminiscent of a younger Dean when he’d get caught sneaking out for dates that John wanted to cry. “I guess… well, yeah. I mean… stakes got higher, I guess.” 

“Higher than your brother becoming heir to the king of Hell?” He crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Huh? Oh yeah. That gig. He turned it down. There’s a bit of a leadership crisis down there now. They’re having an election. An actual election.”

“Why do you have any idea about the leadership structure of Hell?” 

“Well, one of the candidates was a roommate of ours for a while. Plus Sam keeps getting campaign mail. Something about the Hell network thing. He can’t block it, it’s the whole demon blood thing. Sometimes he leaves his laptop open where I can read the messages though.”

“You read your brother’s emails.”

“Well yeah.” Dean looked surprised. “How else am I supposed to keep an eye on what he’s doing?”

He could have pointed out that even when he’d been alive he hadn’t felt compelled to read his sons’ messages. He’d trusted them that far. Of course, that was part of the reason Sam had gotten away with Stanford in the first place. He shrugged. “Okay. So he’s on Hell’s mailing list?”

“It’s in the blood. They set up a network. Can’t get off it, but hey – free Wi-Fi everywhere so you know. There are benefits I guess.” He drank from his bottle again, the bottle that had somehow survived the purge. He offered it to John, who accepted it without thinking much about it. 

“All right. Now answer me this. I’m pretty sure I left specific orders before I went, Dean. About Sam. Why is he still alive?” 

Dean swallowed. “You said I only had to kill him if I couldn’t save him, sir. Well I saved him. I saved him again and again, or I found someone who could.”

“Kid’s messing around with magic that brings people back from the dead, Dean. I’d hardly call that saved.” 

Dean stared at the table for a moment. “I’ll help you find a room, sir.”

As it turned out John already had a room – Sam had apparently thought of everything, clearing out a bedroom near what was identified as Dean’s before undertaking whatever dark ritual had brought John back. The blond snorted. “This room he actually empties,” he muttered. Dean gave their father a tour of the more interesting areas of what he called The Bunker, showing off a pretty incredible firing range, an actual dungeon and the garage. Sam’s room was pointed out. It did not escape John’s attention that a lock had been added to the door, or that Sam’s room was a good distance from John’s and Dean’s. 

The next day the brothers reunited for important work. “Got to get you inked up, Dad. Not something we can really go without if you want to spend a lot of time outside the bunker.” Dean pulled his shirt aside to reveal an anti-possession sigil inked into his skin.

“Smart,” the father grunted. “Good thinking.” 

“You too, Sam,” the elder brother ordered. “It’s time you got that replaced.”

“I already took care of it.” 

“Prove it.”

“No.”

They locked eyes for several seconds when finally John broke in. “Is there a reason you’re so insubordinate today Sam?” he demanded in as mild a tone as he could manage. 

“Soldiers are insubordinate. I’m not a soldier and I never was. Your appointment at the tattoo parlor is at noon.” He grabbed a cup of coffee. It was kind of hard to tell how much sleep he’d gotten the night before; the dark circles under his eyes didn’t look much larger but they didn’t look any smaller either. “Cas will meet us there.”

“What’s a Cas?” John wondered while Dean glowered at his brother. 

“Don’t go changing the subject, Sam. You need this.”

“Why? It’s not like my body actually belongs to me in the first place. Not as far as you’re concerned. Neither of you, really, although Dad never took it quite as far as you did.” He huffed out half a laugh. “And like I said, I’ve already taken care of it.” 

“You’re going to have to do more than just tell me, Sam.” 

“No. I’m not.” He glanced at his father. “Cas is an… ally. Of Dean’s. I think you’ll like him. He’s a good soldier.”

“So what, you’ve already made the appointment?” John had to admire the skill with which Dean had been derailed. 

“It’s the only tattoo parlor in Lebanon. Danny’s a pretty good artist; what he’s doing in such a small town is anyone’s guess but it’s a good thing that he’s here. I’m going to recommend that you take steps, Dad, to get an extra set of sigils inked in too to keep you off angel radar. As a Winchester you’re overly attractive to angels. The choice is yours.” He glanced at Dean. “Probably. But if you don’t want them to be able to find you and pester you at all hours, you need to be able to keep their eyes off you and that means extra ink.” 

“What, you mean like the carving on our ribs?” Dean wanted to know. There was carving on his boy’s ribs? How exactly had that happened?

“Exactly. Cas had it done.” He shrugged. “Are we ready to go?” 

Sam ceded his shotgun position to John while Dean drove the Impala. It felt good to be in her again; he’d rather be driving but something about the set to Dean’s jaw told the patriarch that he might not want to push it. Fortunately the ride wasn’t long and they rolled into town and pulled up in front of a shining, clean tattoo parlor. They met a blue-eyed man in a suit in the waiting area. The guy was about six feet tall – on the tall side for most people, short for Winchesters. “Hello, Dean. Sam,” he greeted. “You are John Winchester. I am pleased to meet you in person. I have watched you for some time now. My name is Castiel.” 

John accepted the proffered hand. He couldn’t quite identify what seemed so off about this guy. Maybe it was the intensity of his eyes. Maybe it was the way this guy stood just a little too close for comfort. Maybe it was the idea that the guy had been watching him for any length of time – it sounded so very stalker-ish. “Pleased to meet you. Are you a hunter?”

“No. I’m an Angel of the – I’m an angel.” 

John snorted. “Sure you are, buddy.”

“No, it’s true,” Dean insisted while Sam spoke to a shaven-headed man who emerged from the work area to greet them. “Honest to God actual angel. Wings and everything – although the angels’ wings are kind of clipped these days. This one actually yanked me out of Hell a few years back. Sam too. Well, half of him.” 

Castiel winced. “I apologize for that, Dean. It was not my intention –“ 

“What, couldn’t wrestle two archangels for a soul? It’s fixed, dude. Let’s not dwell on it.”

“It’s hardly fixed, Dean. The damage will never heal.” 

“Damage?” John blinked. Dean gave a long glance at his brother. “Sam’s walking around, breathing on his own and everything. He’s fine.”

“Dean, Sam is –“

“I said he’s fine. Leave it.” John watched the interplay between the men. He wasn’t sure what was going on here. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. This attitude Dean was displaying – it had to be the hangover. Right? Or maybe the fight with Sam? 

The guy calling himself an angel thought about it for a moment and then backed down. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.” 

Sam beckoned them over. “John, Dean, this is Danny. Danny, these are my brother and our uncle John. John here wants the designs I showed you.” John looked at Danny, who had more than a bit of visible ink. “Are you sure about this?” the guy wanted to know, New York accent thick like cream cheese on a bagel. 

“Yeah. Pretty sure.”

“All right.” There was paperwork to sign and then prep work. Danny wanted to check on the work he’d done for Sam “last time,” so they got to see Sam’s replacement tattoo after tall and damn if Sam hadn’t a lot of muscle since John had been alive the last time. Muscle and scar tissue, really. Danny gave a low whistle. “Looking good,” he grinned as he prepped John’s tattoos. “Please tell me you’re not keeping my work hidden under sixteen layers, man. Tell me you’ve got someone – a girl, a guy, an Internet datefriend who lives in Canada – who gets to see all that.”

Sam’s cheeks flushed. “Nah, man. I’m a pretty private guy.” 

“Your body, your choice.” He shrugged. “Seems a shame, though. Come on. Let’s get the ink done.”

“Wait – what’s this one here?” Dean indicated a line of sigils down Sam’s spine just before the larger man put his shirt back on. “I don’t recognize it. 

Cas’ eyes narrowed. “It’s Enochian. A message firmly indicating non-consent.” Dean rolled his eyes.

“Do I need that one too?” John wondered. 

“Probably not,” Sam replied. “Its entirely up to you, though.” The tee-shirt went back over his head and he continued. “I tend to feel like it can’t hurt anything but you know. It’s up to you. Some folks just don’t seem to think that no means no.” 

“Here we go,” Dean grumbled. 

“Do you guys need a minute?” Danny offered, eyes fluttering between the men and tongue between his teeth.

“No. We’re fine.” Dean gave a thin-lipped smile. 

The necessary tattoos were applied and paid for. They hurt, but it wasn’t as though they were John’s first tattoos or his first brush with pain. The anti-possession tattoo was actually a pretty good idea; it must have been Dean’s. The family left and returned to the bunker, Sam riding with Cas in what looked like a vehicle from the worse sort of 1970s ethnic exploitation film. Cas brushed his hand over the tattoos before leaving, leaving nothing behind save ink and a clean, pleasant sensation instead of the burning feeling that came with a tattoo. “So,” he said to his son. “Angels are real, huh?”

As it turned out so many more things than angels were real. He learned that over the next couple of weeks as he worked with Dean to get up to speed. Angels were real. They were mostly “dicks,” as Dean told him. “Except Cas.” Cas clearly spent a lot of time at the bunker, had his own room and everything. 

“I am in fact a dick, Dean,” the angel monotoned at them. “Or at least I have been in the past. I endeavor to not be one in the present. I believe that the angel with the least ‘dickish’ behavior toward you and your brother would be Balthazar, although I think he favored Sam slightly. Perhaps he simply disliked you more. Why is it that the male sexual organ is synonymous with inappropriate behavior?” 

Dragons were real, gods were real, God Himself was real although he evidently took a powder some ten thousand years ago or so and hadn’t been heard from since. He learned about Dean’s deal and his own trip to Hell, he learned about Sam’s blood addiction, he learned about the Apocalypse and Sam’s stint in Hell, Sam’s time without a soul, the Leviathan (and the reason for all the damn Borax), Heaven, Purgatory, some Trials. He learned about the sealing of Heaven, some kind of problem with the Veil, Knights of Hell. 

Why wasn’t just hunting ghosts good enough anymore? 

“Why the hell did you talk him out of closing up Hell, Dean?” he demanded when he heard about the attempt to close up the Pit. He could remember the stench of sulfur as though it had been only yesterday that he’d breathed it in like oxygen. “You could have spared the entire world what our family suffered.”

“Funny. That was the logic that I used on him to start the whole thing, get him back into hunting. He’d found some girl and a dog.” Sam wasn’t there for the conversation. He didn’t seem to be around much at all, a mere ghost in the bowels of the earth beneath Lebanon. “I didn’t think he’d die if he did them.”

“Would it have really been so bad, Dean?” 

Dean blinked. “Yeah, Dad. It would have.”

“You don’t seem to be getting much out of having him here.”

“He’s being a little bitch about my saving his damn life again, but I’d do it all again. Every last bit.” Dean drank from a bottle of Jack. It seemed to be around him all of the time these days. John knew what the Pit could do to a guy, what the memories would do. “It’s my job to save him.” And John knew that he was hardly in a position to cast any stones about the drinking, but it didn’t exactly seem like a bit of early-stage liver disease was exactly Dean’s problem. He had this angel around to heal him when it came to it, after all. It was his attitude toward his brother and, to an extent, to his angelic friend. 

“No, Dean. It was your job to keep him safe when he was a kid. He’s a grown ass man. And he’s – well, he’s not exactly human is he?” He grabbed the bottle from Dean and took a drink. “You’d be a better hunter without him. How much progress have you made on icing Abaddon while you’ve been babysitting his ass?” 

“You’ve got a point.” He considered the bottle. 

Cas walked into the room. “I see now why Sam thinks so little of his own life.”

“It’s not like you’ve exactly seen him as a valued member of the team, Cas,” Dean sneered. He’d had quite a lot to drink. “You’re the one who broke his brain.”

That didn’t sound like any of the story that John had heard from Dean, but he kept his mouth shut. What he had noticed was that Dean had become unaccustomed to being questioned or challenged, and that was certainly his right. As the commander during some very difficult times he was entitled to unconditional support and John certainly wasn’t going to show up after eight years of complete non-existence and try to muscle his way back into the top position. And honestly he got why Dean had done most of why he’d done it. Except for keeping his freak brother alive, everything had been for the best and if he was going to keep the freak around he’d done it in the best ways possible. He’d kept him from letting Lucifer unleash the Apocalypse. He’d taken him back after Sam had abandoned him in Purgatory. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the whole Mark of Cain thing. It seemed like a bad idea – it came from Lucifer, via a demon so old and powerful as to be at least on a par with Azazel himself, and nothing good came from accepting things from demons. He should know – he’d been one. Still, it sounded like it was the only way to get rid of Abaddon, and getting rid of demons was kind of a Winchester trademark. 

Something didn’t add up though, and that something was Sam. When they’d been kid Dean could always bring Sam around to his point of view; now he wasn’t even trying. Why bother saving him from the effects of the Trials – why bother stopping the trials at all – if he was going to have this downright hateful relationship? 

During few weeks of John’s re-acclamation to life he saw very little of Sam, but when he did see the younger brother the two clashed just as much as John and Sam had the first time around. And that had never happened before. He watched and he waited, but Sam seemed in no way inclined to approach him. That shouldn’t have surprised him – it wasn’t like the kid had ever been drawn to him when he’d been younger. Hell, even before Mary died he wouldn’t go to John unless forced. 

It was the angel who dropped the first clues though. He cornered John on the firing range one day while Dean was out buying groceries and Sam was doing whatever it was that Sam did to avoid human contact. “John, I was wondering if I could speak with you privately for a moment.” 

John paused. He didn’t like it when the angel addressed him as John. He was Dean’s friend, damn it. Dean’s friends got to call him Mr. Winchester. Of course, this “friend” was older than time itself so maybe it was okay. “Shoot.”

“You have not made much of an effort to converse with your other son.” 

He sighed. “Sam and I never really got on too well,” he admitted. “It’s generally best if we stay out of each other’s way.”

“Even so, Sam is… isolated… at this point. He could do with some support.”

“Maybe if he was more respectful of his brother and followed orders like a good soldier he’d get some support.” He put his gun down. “I tried for nineteen years to make Sam know his place in this family and I couldn’t drive it through that thick skull of his. What makes you think I can do it now?”

Cas paused. “Has it occurred to you that Dean is not necessarily behaving right by him?”

“Nope. Dean’s the commander. Sam’s the soldier. That’s the way it is in a war, Cas.” 

Was it John’s imagination or did the angel look a little bit amused? “I see. Have you not wondered why it is that Sam resurrected you? The two of you loathe each other, and he is very much aware of the fact that you see no value to his continued existence.”

“And?” Sure it bothered him to hear someone else, an outsider, say out loud that his son loathed him. He wasn’t going to let that same outsider know it. And when someone outside of John’s head pointed out that John thought Sam should’ve been put down a long time ago, well, that just made John sound like a bad father. He didn’t really like the feeling that gave him.

“Sam is more cerebral. Knowing that he has no support means that he works without consulting others until he has something to say. He did not consult anyone about your resurrection, for example, until he knew that it would work but I believe that it was part of a plan. Now he has turned his attention to the Veil.” 

“Why isn’t he helping Dean with Abaddon?” 

“Because Dean won’t allow it. Dean doesn’t trust him. You don’t trust him. It is believed that Metatron did something to prevent souls from passing over into Heaven, which is something that Sam is more concerned with than I feel is necessarily healthy.”

He chuckled. “Demon spawn don’t go to Heaven, Castiel.”

“On the contrary. His place in Heaven has been assured since the Apocalypse. Dean’s as well, although the Mark of Cain prevents that. It gives Lucifer a claim; I am uncertain as to what the final result will be. It turned Cain into a demon. I don’t know what will happen with Dean.” John’s throat caught at that. “Yes – you were originally intended to be the Righteous Man, but you succumbed and became a demon. I am aware. I commanded the garrison that was intended to rescue you when the first Seal was broken. Instead it had to be Dean. It is not of import now.” 

Rage flared in him. “What is of ‘import’ then, if not my son?”

“It is your sons that concern me now, John. Both of them, Crowley has the first blade, and Sam may have found some information. He will be forming a plan.” 

“It’s not Sam’s job to form a plan,” John frowned. “It’s his job to shut up and do as he’s told.” 

“You are aware that he’s a good five thousand years old, correct?” 

“He’s thirty, Castiel.”

“I believe that Dean has omitted certain key parts of your re-education. Perhaps you should attend to that yourself. Sam is in the library. He is alone.” 

“Sam and I don’t generally speak.”

“I’m not certain how many more chances you’ll have, John.” 

“The hell are you talking about?”

“As I said. Sam is almost certainly forming a plan. He did not bring you back for himself. He brought you back for Dean.” The angel walked away. 

John considered the angel’s words. He didn’t go running off toward the library. He was a hunter. He didn’t go scurrying off at the beck and call of every damn supernatural creature on the planet even if they did seem to be friends with his son. That night, though, he did make his way down to Sam’s room and knock on the door. “Can I help you with something?” Sam wanted to know. He was dressed for bed, and since when did his sons wear pajamas? Not since they’d started hunting, that was for damn sure. 

“I was kind of hoping that we could talk. You know, just us.” He looked over Sam’s shoulder. John’s room had been cleared out properly, like an actual bedroom. Sam’s looked like a storage closet with a bed in it.

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “What did I do this time?” he sighed. “I’ve given both of you a very wide berth.” 

“Well, yeah, you have, Sam. You’ve been a ghost around here since you brought me back. How the hell am I supposed to trust you if I can’t even tell what you’re doing?” He glanced around again. “Are you going to let me in?” 

“Is there really nowhere in here that I can have any privacy?” Sam growled, moving aside.

“Seems to me you get plenty of privacy. You don’t interact with anyone else.” John sat down in the hard, uncomfortable desk chair. 

Sam closed his laptop. “Doesn’t mean Dean or Cas aren’t watching me. Or you.”

“You haven’t exactly given us a reason to trust you.” 

“I love how the guy working with the King of Hell, the one who took on a brand from the father of murder himself, is the trustworthy one.” He huffed out a little laugh. “Door’s over there.” 

“Give me a reason to trust you.” “I don’t actually care if you trust me or not. You never trusted me the first time around. You think I’m dumb enough to think this time will be any different?” Fifteen years ago the words would have been screamed. Even eight years ago the words would have been loud, angry. Now they were just stated, flatly. The passion that had once characterized his youngest was long since gone. He wasn’t sure why that hurt him so much. It wasn’t like he liked the kid or anything. 

“You brought me back for a reason, Sam. I want to know what it is.” 

“Dean can’t stand to be alone. He talked me down from closing Hell because he didn’t want to have to be alone. Not because he particularly cared about any contribution that I could make, because I haven’t been allowed to really make a contribution since I got fully out of the Cage –“

“The Cage?” 

“Lucifer’s Cage. Dean leave that little detail out?” 

“He told me you were in Hell. Not a whole lot about the details.” He considered. “How’d you wind up there? I remember that place. It’s not… even for demons.” 

“Helps that I’m not an actual demon.” He smiled nastily. “The only way to stop the Apocalypse was to put Lucifer back in the Cage. The only way to get him there was to take control while he was wearing me. So I did. Michael tried to stop me. So I grabbed him and dragged him in too. He was wearing Adam at the time.” 

John gasped. “My little boy?” It escaped before he could stop himself. 

“Yeah. The good one. The pure one.” John gave a start when he recognized the words he himself had thought upon his own resurrection. “The one you hid from all the shit couldn’t defend himself against even a ghoul and wound up in the Cage with me and two angry archangels. Fortunately for him he wasn’t the one they were angry with.”

“Where is he now?” 

“Heaven. When Death came to release me he sent Adam’s soul on to Heaven. Lucky me. I got to come back here.” 

John blinked. “You’d rather have been dead?” 

“Knowing what I know now?” He sighed. “Yeah. Anyway. My body failed anyway after I stopped the Trials but Dean still wouldn’t let go. He did something really, really terrible to keep me from going with Death –“ 

“He’s your brother – your commander.”

“Doesn’t give him the right to allow another creature to possess me. Again.” His lips folded into a grim line. “And then he lied about it for months. Chunks of missing time, things that didn’t make sense – I thought I was losing my mind. And he let me think that. Months.” 

“How did you expel the demon?” “It was the demon who helped me. It was the angel he crammed in there that was causing the problem. Once I knew that it was in there I got rid of it just fine. Come on – I took control from Lucifer himself. Do you really think an understudy from the heavenly chorus line is going to be a problem?” He snorted. “That’s right. Dean allowed two supernatural creatures to possess me at the same time. My mind. My body. My soul.” He had to get control of himself for a moment. “You’ve been possessed. I don’t know if you remember that. This makes four times. Twice at Dean’s hands.” 

John processed that. “Why are you still here?” John had done some shady things in his time. And Sam was just about the least valued of his sons – he’d accepted a very long time ago that he couldn’t get attached to this one. And what Dean and Cas had told him about Mary’s deal… well, he was still having a lot of difficulty accepting it. But to have allowed another person, however inhuman, to be possessed – that was beyond unacceptable. 

“He’s my brother and I love him. And I’m worried about the Mark. It’s changing him. If I can help him I want to do it. And I can’t see a way to fix the problem with the Veil without access to the library, and probably Dean’s help. “ The corners of his mouth twitched. “Anyway. I brought you back because I can’t have him interfering if it looks like it might be dangerous to my body. You programmed him from the time he was four to ‘take care of Sammy.’” There was no mistaking the mocking tone there and John considered punching it away, but he knew he deserved it. “I know that you don’t have that kind of attachment.” 

“Sam, I lo-“

“Don’t finish that sentence. I’ve been lied to enough. I’ve read your journal. And I remember everything from when I was a kid. Everything. Your job is to keep Dean together and keep him from doing anything stupid. I may never have been able to trust you as a kid but I know I can trust you to do that.” 

John stood. He knew a dismissal when he heard one. “Sam –“

“Just go.”

Another week passed. John didn’t try to interact with Sam again. He did keep an eye on both of his sons. Sam went about his business doing whatever it was Sam did – it seemed to be exhausting, whatever it was, and if the kid was eating no one else in the bunker could prove it. Dean, on the other hand, was perfectly willing to interact with his father. It was like he was happy to have someone to confide in, although most of what he wanted to talk about was Sam. He didn’t trust whatever his brother was working on in his “secret Sammy lair;” he was tired of the sulking and the not eating and the whatever. Dean was probably spending as much time watching Sam as he was researching Abaddon, and that made John acutely uncomfortable. He tried to talk to Cas about it, but the angel just shook his head. “It’s probably the Mark,” he sighed. 

By the end of the week some guy named Crowley called. Dean spoke with him briefly and collected Castiel. “It’s time. Crowley’s got the Blade, we’re going up against Abaddon. Let’s go.” 

“Let me get Sam,” John told him, eyes narrowing.

“What the hell does Sam have to do with anything?” 

“Is he not your brother anymore?” Castiel wondered. “You’ll need as much backup –“ 

And Sam was already there. “- as you can carry. I’m ready to go.” 

The angel’s head tilted. “You have a plan.”

“I do.” 

“You helping Abaddon or me?” Dean snarled.

Sam huffed out that little sound that was as close as the kid got to a laugh, and when had it happened that the snarky, funny, rebellious kid had become this grim, miserable man before him? He didn’t actually respond to his brother, though. He only spoke to Castiel, and he spoke in a language John couldn’t identify. The angel looked annoyed, then concerned. Sam only looked determined. Cas grabbed his arm. “Cas – it’s going to be fine,” Sam said, resting a hand lightly on the creature’s arm before gently removing his hand. “Also, when I told you that you’re a terrible liar? Wasn’t kidding.” 

The meet-up site was an old cemetery in Lawrence, a place called Stull. The mention of the place made the angel and both of his sons grimace, although Dean recovered the most quickly. It didn’t matter. Dean wasn’t about to let the meeting not happen, so it had to happen. John rode with Dean. Sam rode with Cas. It was probably better for everyone that way. The trip took close to four hours. John watched Dean the whole time and he tried to figure the guy out. “You okay, Dean?” 

“I’m fine, sir. Why?” 

“You seem tense.”

“I’m going to fight a Knight of Hell. Maybe two. Why wouldn’t I be tense?” He gave a bitter little laugh. 

“”What do you mean maybe two?” John frowned. “What are you talking about?” 

“Dad, Sam’s powers are the same as a Knight of Hell. Maybe more, right? I mean, he was supposed to be the king, you know? And all that crap is still in him. He’ll never be clean. No matter what he does, he’ll never be clean.”

“Not his fault, Dean.” The words hurt, because John had thought the same thing for most of his first life. “Azazel –“ 

“It doesn’t matter, Dad. He’s… he’s a freak. And he went out of his way to make himself more of a freak. He can’t undo that. He can… he can snuff out a demon with just his brain. Just exhale and poof! It’s gone.”

“Why isn’t he doing it then?”

“Because he has to guzzle demon blood to do it. The knife – the knives, now – they’re natural.” The mark on Dean’s arm throbbed an angry red. They arrived at Stull, greeted by a short man with dark hair and a Bentley.


	2. Ending I: All Hurt, No Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first ending - as requested by half of respondents, no comfort for Dean.

A slight breeze kicked up when the guy – British, called himself Crowley and greeted John with a smirk – handed Dean the blade. It wasn’t much of a knife, looked to be made of some kind of jawbone, but when it was handed off to Dean a red light began to emanate along John’s son’s veins starting at that damn mark. His chest heaved and he started looking around himself, a bit of a curl to his lip. He clearly wasn’t seeing much but the battlefield; his focus could be narrow in a fight on the best of days, and this was not the best of days. Sam’s lips thinned out into a grim line but he said nothing. 

A woman appeared halfway across the graveyard from the quintet. She was stunning in a way that made John remember Hell, even though he could see no black smoke about her. “Good job, sunshine,” she told him in a perfectly calm and collected voice. “There’s just one thing you’re forgetting. The blade has to be activated in order to be at all effective against me – or did our poor little lost lamb neglect to pass that on to you?” She smiled nastily. “Looks like I’ll get to take those pretty little eyes of yours after all.”

“Awfully confident,” Sam smirked, stepping forward.

“Fall back, Sam,” John barked. What in the hell was the kid doing? Dean was only half-aware of what was even happening, and here was Sam antagonizing people.

“John,” Cas whispered. “I told you – Sam has a plan.”

Dean was visibly trying to control himself now. “Get behind Dad, Sam,” he growled, and did his eyes flash black for a moment? 

“No.”

“Sam!” 

“No,” Sam replied again, turning his head to meet Dean’s eyes.

John had seen one of the attack dogs unleashed in Vietnam. It hadn’t been a pretty sight. Dean kind of looked like that now – he gave a little jolt and staggered forward with that blade in his right hand, just below that damn brand, and he brought his arm up and Sam, he just stood there and he took it. Dean didn’t raise his arm very far. He didn’t have to. He just stabbed into his brother’s back, right into the spine with as much force as he could muster and then those alien eyes rolled back into his head and the knees in the giraffe legs buckled and Sam fell to the ground. 

Dean didn’t pause to watch the results of his handiwork. He charged into the fight, attacking the redhead and the other demons with a kind of mindless abandon. In the meantime Sam was caught not by his father, who gaped after his son, but by the angel and this Crowley fellow. “Moose? Moose?” the Englishman said desperately, slapping at the Winchester’s face and lowering him gently to the ground. “Come on, we’ll find a way to fix this.” 

Sam’s eyes came back to them and he focused. “No.” 

“Cas, you can heal him, can’t you?” the – arms dealer, maybe? – demanded, eyebrows drawn together in consternation. 

“No,” Sam said again. “More work to do.” 

“You planned this?” John turned to look at his younger son who bled from his mouth now. “You wanted this?” His breath felt like ash in his mouth. Had Sam seriously just allowed his brother to murder him – planned for it? Had that been the plan the entire time? 

Was that the entire reason that John had been brought back at all – so Dean wouldn’t be alone after killing Sam? 

Another player appeared on the scene, dark-haired and with possibly the most prominent cheekbones John had ever seen. “Sam,” he greeted. “It’s good to see you again. Are you quite ready?” John hadn’t heard him approach and couldn’t quite figure out where he’d come from, but here he was.

“Does our agreement still stand?” the boy gasped out. 

“What are you, his reaper?” the father growled. “He’s not going anywhere.” 

“Moose must have gotten his brains from his mum’s side.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Or maybe Azazel’s. That’s not just Sam’s reaper, he’s _the_ reaper. As in, the Horseman. Death.” He turned back to Sam. “Don’t do this, Moose.” 

“I’d have brought some deep-fried Snickers for Dean, but I’m afraid our tenuous friendship is at an end. The next time I see Dean it won’t be with a snack.” He reached out a hand for Sam, who stood. “Come along, Sam.” 

Sam rose and didn’t rise at the same time – the cooling body was left, but they still saw him rise up whole and unblemished. For the first time since John had come back from beyond, Sam didn’t look tired. “Good luck,” he told the others. “Thanks for everything. Hopefully I’ll see you soon.” And just like that they were left with nothing but a cooling body and the bloodbath Dean was causing on the field. 

It was over in a couple of minutes, honestly. Dean calmed himself down in another few, approaching the little knot of mourners. “What happened to him?” he demanded, voice still hard. 

They looked at each other. “You don’t remember?” John asked neutrally. 

“All I could see was Abaddon,” his son replied. “Beyond that nothing mattered. What happened to Sammy? How’d he get himself killed this time?” 

Cas reached out and took the blade out of Dean’s hands. “You stabbed your brother in the back, Dean. You stabbed him in the same place Jake Talley stabbed him at Cold Oak.” 

Dean looked down, looked back at Cas. “You can’t be serious.” 

“He’s dead, Dean.” John swallowed. He hadn’t thought he’d feel like this. He hadn’t thought he’d feel much. “He’s gone.” 

“You never told me Death himself was his bloody reaper,” Crowley spat. “So bring him the hell back,” Dean growled. “Between the two of you someone should be able to do it.”

“Dean, you stabbed your brother with the First Blade. Don’t you get it? He can’t be brought back,” Cas ground out. “It’s like a direct rocket to Heaven. And because it pre-dates Metatron’s spell, it’s possibly the only way to get to Heaven. It was the only way to activate the blade.” 

“Did you know about this?” Dean turned on Crowley, advancing slowly and inexorably. 

“No!” The smaller man didn’t back down. “I’m furious, actually. If I’d known that the blade required you to kill the Moose to activate it I’d have found another way to deal with Abaddon. Hadn’t you noticed that I only let my demons really go after you?”

“The only one who knew was Sam,” Cas confirmed. He reached down and closed Sam’s fixed, glassy eyes. “It was the only way for you to finish the job that you took on.”

“He manipulated me into killing him!” Dean seethed.

“No.” John shook his head. “No, son. You took the job on of your own free will. You’re the one who never looked into the terms and conditions and you’re just as guilty about not talking to your brother as he is. Even more, really, since you’re the one who stuffed an angel into him in the first place.”

“He was going to die!”

“Does he look any more alive now?” John stood. “All right. Let’s go back to the bunker. We’ll give him a hunter’s funeral –“

Cas frowned. “Sam hated hunting.” He gestured and the body was reduced to ash. “We can at least respect that about him in the end?” 

They loaded back into the cars. Crowley declined to return to the bunker, saying that he had an empire to rebuild. John took the keys from his son, who stared into the void. He didn’t speak the entire rest of the way home. 

It was two days before anything changed – Dean didn’t speak, for all that Castiel and John went about their business. John could barely bring himself to be in the same room with the son who’d stabbed his own brother in the back. He’d ordered him to kill Sam once, but not like this. 

Finally an icy spot appeared in the map room when all three happened to be together and the form of a poorly dressed Asian boy appeared. “What the Hell?” John demanded, looking for a salt gun. 

“Stop, Dad – we know this one.” They were the first words from Dean in two days. He reached out to stay his father. “This is Kevin Tran. Kev, How did you get into the bunker? It’s, like, warded.” 

“I’m a prophet. Was a prophet.” He shrugged. “I’m a special snowflake, Dean. I came to let you know that Sam did it. He fixed the problem with the Veil. Everyone who couldn’t go to Heaven is there now.” 

“So he can come back, right?” The desperation in Dean’s voice brought tears to John’s eyes. 

“Are you kidding me? No. No, Sam can’t come back. I mean, the dude’s in Heaven, Dean. He’s got the Roadhouse to go to, he’s with this beautiful blonde woman who’s probably even smarter than him. We hang out sometimes. It’s pretty cool.” 

“Sam gets to go to Heaven?” John questioned.

“I told you before that Sam’s place in Heaven was guaranteed,” Cas informed. “Of course, Dean’s was as well before he took on the Mark.”

“Yeah. So, Sam’s Heaven needed some reconstruction obviously but we’re all working on that. He said to let you know that Metatron is dead.” 

Dean stepped forward. “Wait – you mean that he’s not waiting for me?” He seemed genuinely outraged by this.

“Dean, that mark makes you Lucifer’s. You can no more enter Heaven than Cain can. Initially, because you were soulmates, you and Sam did indeed share a heaven. When you accepted that Mark from Cain you destroyed not only your own Heaven but Sam’s too. I’m surprised that this wasn’t explained to you.” Cas shook his head sadly.

“He… he tried. I wouldn’t… I didn’t want to hear it. I was only interested in killing Abaddon, because at least I could do something.” Dean slumped down at the table. “You mean I’ll never see him again?” 

“No, Dean. Sam is finally at peace.” Kevin looked at him a little askance. “Dude. You killed him. I’d think you’d be okay with this.” 

John looked at his son’s face. “Does he look okay to you?” He stood up and recoiled. “He murdered his brother.”


	3. Ending 2 - Maybe Comfort, Someday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the second possible ending. Respondents wanted the possibility of comfort for Dean someday, but not immediately. So... here.

A slight breeze kicked up when the guy – British, called himself Crowley and greeted John with a smirk – handed Dean the blade. It wasn’t much of a knife, looked to be made of some kind of jawbone, but when it was handed off to Dean a red light began to emanate along John’s son’s veins starting at that damn mark. His chest heaved and he started looking around himself, a bit of a curl to his lip. He clearly wasn’t seeing much but the battlefield; his focus could be narrow in a fight on the best of days, and this was not the best of days. Sam’s lips thinned out into a grim line but he said nothing.

A woman appeared halfway across the graveyard from the quintet. She was stunning in a way that made John remember Hell, even though he could see no black smoke about her. “Good job, sunshine,” she told him in a perfectly calm and collected voice. “There’s just one thing you’re forgetting. The blade has to be activated in order to be at all effective against me – or did our poor little lost lamb neglect to pass that on to you?” She smiled nastily. “Looks like I’ll get to take those pretty little eyes of yours after all.” 

“Awfully confident,” Sam smirked, stepping forward.

“Fall back, Sam,” John barked. What in the hell was the kid doing? Dean was only half-aware of what was even happening, and here was Sam antagonizing people. 

“John,” Cas whispered. “I told you – Sam has a plan.” Dean was visibly trying to control himself now. 

“Get behind Dad, Sam,” he growled, and did his eyes flash black for a moment?

“No.”

“Sam!” 

“No,” Sam replied again, turning his head to meet Dean’s eyes. 

John had seen one of the attack dogs unleashed in Vietnam. It hadn’t been a pretty sight. Dean kind of looked like that now – he gave a little jolt and staggered forward with that blade in his right hand, just below that damn brand, and he brought his arm up and Sam, he just stood there and he took it. Dean didn’t raise his arm very far. He didn’t have to. He just stabbed into his brother’s back, right into the spine with as much force as he could muster and then those alien eyes rolled back into his head and the knees in the giraffe legs buckled and Sam fell to the ground. 

Dean didn’t pause to watch the results of his handiwork. He charged into the fight, attacking the redhead and the other demons with a kind of mindless abandon. In the meantime Sam was caught not by his father, who gaped after his son, but by the angel and this Crowley fellow. “Moose? Moose?” the Englishman said desperately, slapping at the Winchester’s face and lowering him gently to the ground. “Come on, we’ll find a way to fix this.”

Sam’s eyes came back to them and he focused. “No.” 

“Cas, you can heal him, can’t you?” the – arms dealer, maybe? – demanded, eyebrows drawn together in consternation. 

“No,” Sam said again. “More work to do.” 

“You planned this?” John turned to look at his younger son who bled from his mouth now. “You wanted this?” His breath felt like ash in his mouth. Had Sam seriously just allowed his brother to murder him – planned for it? Had that been the plan the entire time? 

Was that the entire reason that John had been brought back at all – so Dean wouldn’t be alone after killing Sam?

Another player appeared on the scene, dark-haired and with possibly the most prominent cheekbones John had ever seen. “Sam,” he greeted. “It’s good to see you again. Are you quite ready?” John hadn’t heard him approach and couldn’t quite figure out where he’d come from, but here he was.

“Does our agreement still stand?” the boy gasped out.

“What are you, his reaper?” the father growled. “He’s not going anywhere.” 

“Moose must have gotten his brains from his mum’s side.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Or maybe Azazel’s. That’s not just Sam’s reaper, he’s _the_ reaper. As in, the Horseman. Death.” He turned back to Sam. “Don’t do this, Moose.” 

“I’d have brought some deep-fried Snickers for Dean, but I’m afraid our tenuous friendship is at an end. The next time I see Dean it won’t be with a snack.” He reached out a hand for Sam, who stood. “Come along, Sam.” Sam rose and didn’t rise at the same time – the cooling body was left, but they still saw him rise up whole and unblemished. 

For the first time since John had come back from beyond, Sam didn’t look tired. “Good luck,” he told the others. “Thanks for everything. Hopefully I’ll see you soon.” And just like that they were left with nothing but a cooling body and the bloodbath Dean was causing on the field. 

It was over in a couple of minutes, honestly. Dean calmed himself down in another few, approaching the little knot of mourners. “What happened to him?” he demanded, voice still hard. 

They looked at each other. “You don’t remember?” John asked neutrally. 

“All I could see was Abaddon,” his son replied. “Beyond that nothing mattered. What happened to Sammy? How’d he get himself killed this time?” 

Cas reached out and took the blade out of Dean’s hands. “You stabbed your brother in the back, Dean. You stabbed him in the same place Jake Talley stabbed him at Cold Oak.” 

Dean looked down, looked back at Cas. “You can’t be serious.” 

“He’s dead, Dean.” John swallowed. He hadn’t thought he’d feel like this. He hadn’t thought he’d feel much. “He’s gone.” 

“You never told me Death himself was his bloody reaper,” Crowley spat.

“So bring him the hell back,” Dean growled. “Between the two of you someone should be able to do it.” 

“Dean, you stabbed your brother with the First Blade. Don’t you get it? He can’t be brought back,” Cas ground out. “It’s like a direct rocket to Heaven. And because it pre-dates Metatron’s spell, it’s possibly the only way to get to Heaven. It was the only way to activate the blade.” 

“Did you know about this?” Dean turned on Crowley, advancing slowly and inexorably. “No!” The smaller man didn’t back down. “I’m furious, actually. If I’d known that the blade required you to kill the Moose to activate it I’d have found another way to deal with Abaddon. Hadn’t you noticed that I only let my demons really go after you?” 

“The only one who knew was Sam,” Cas confirmed. He reached down and closed Sam’s fixed, glassy eyes. “It was the only way for you to finish the job that you took on.” 

“He manipulated me into killing him!” Dean seethed.

“No.” John shook his head. “No, son. You took the job on of your own free will. You’re the one who never looked into the terms and conditions and you’re just as guilty about not talking to your brother as he is. Even more, really, since you’re the one who stuffed an angel into him in the first place.”

“He was going to die!” 

“Does he look any more alive now?” John stood. “All right. Let’s go back to the bunker. We’ll give him a hunter’s funeral –“ 

Cas frowned. “Sam hated hunting.” He gestured and the body was reduced to ash. “We can at least respect that about him in the end?” They loaded back into the cars. Crowley declined to return to the bunker, saying that he had an empire to rebuild. John took the keys from his son, who stared into the void. He didn’t speak the entire rest of the way home. 

It was two days before anything changed – Dean didn’t speak, for all that Castiel and John went about their business. Finally an icy spot appeared in the map room when all three happened to be together and the form of a poorly dressed Asian boy appeared. “What the Hell?” John demanded, looking for a salt gun. “Stop, Dad – we know this one.” They were the first words from Dean in two days. He reached out to stay his father. “This is Kevin Tran. Kev, How did you get into the bunker? It’s, like, warded.” 

“I’m a prophet. Was a prophet.” He shrugged. “I’m a special snowflake, Dean. I came to let you know that Sam did it. He fixed the problem with the Veil. Everyone who couldn’t go to Heaven is there now.”

“So he can come back, right?” The desperation in Dean’s voice brought tears to John’s eyes.

“Are you kidding me? No. No, Sam can’t come back. I mean, the dude’s in Heaven, Dean. He’s got the Roadhouse to go to, he’s with this beautiful blonde woman who’s probably even smarter than him. We hang out sometimes. It’s pretty cool.” 

“Sam gets to go to Heaven?” John questioned. 

“I told you before that Sam’s place in Heaven was guaranteed,” Cas informed. “Of course, Dean’s was as well before he took on the Mark.”

“About that,” Kevin said. “None of you has actually gone into his room since he died, has you?” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Winchesters. Honestly. Fortunately I’m, you know, a ghost. Not bound by stupid crap like walls.”

“Or common decency,” John scowled. 

“They made me live on a steady diet of hot dogs and beer for a year. I don’t feel compelled to be gentle with Dean’s feelings after he stabbed his brother in the back.” Kevin reached into the pocket of his hoodie. “Anyway. I told Sam that I was going to stop by and he told me where to find this.” He opened his fist to reveal a piece of brass on a leather thong. 

John hadn’t even noticed that the dumb amulet had been missing, but now that he saw Dean’s face he didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before. All color drained from the younger man’s face. His eyes reddened, his jaw dropped. “How –“ 

“He said to say ‘You didn’t think I wasn’t going to pull that thing right out of the trash on my way out the door, did you?’ You people should have all gotten Oscars, seriously. Bunch of drama queens. Anyway. Metatron’s dead. Cas, apparently you lied to him and left just enough grace in him to create an angel blade of his own. Sam stabbed him in the face.” He shrugged. “He’s trying to figure out a way to re-admit angels, but, uh, he’s a little distracted and he doesn’t really like angels so he’s not trying all that hard.” Kevin blushed.

Dean took the amulet. “What, uh…” 

“Right. So. You should be able to… um… I’m not entirely sure how this is supposed to work, but he says you have to keep that on. ‘Don’t lose it again,’ is how he put it. Over time, it should erase the Mark. Eventually, you’ll be free. And then you should be able to get into Heaven again.”

John frowned. “How is that possible? If Dean is the new Cain and Cain can’t die…” 

“I told you. It’s the amulet. Brothers, man. Brothers. He’s got to work for it. Remember what you told him all those years ago, though? About the family business? ‘Saving people, hunting things?’ You need to get back to that. In that order. Save people, Dean. Help people. He told me you used to be all about that. Get back to that, and you should be able to find your way back to your Heaven. Sam will make sure you’ve got something to come back to.” The ghost disappeared.


End file.
